Your first proper road bike

You never forget your first proper road bike. I went to pick her up in the outskirts of Leeds, using a previously unnoticed junction on the impossible to navigate outer, outer ring road. She was waiting, propped up against a garden fence in all her eighties glory, potholed down tube, rusty seat post and unravelling bar tape. As i first swung my leg over, tiptoeing to maintain balance i know this was going to be an experience. A bit unstable at first, the sensation of speed as i traveled down the road, desperately reaching for the down tube shifters and immediately slipping the chain. Embarrassed and with hands covered in murky chain grease as i flipped her back upright, how could i say no to a bike with character!

I had moved to a house with a half hour walk to work, the nearest bus stop was 10 minutes away with a £3.80 daily fair for the privilege of traveling through the notorious Headingley to Hyde park traffic twice a day. Riding a bike would easily offset the cost of the bus and for a glorious year we would fly past the stationary buses, coasting along the fabulous bike lanes, hands on the tops for the mini climb, immediately change up to the 52 chain ring, hands in the drops and try for the speed record going past the church. For the first few journeys it would take most of the day before my stupid grin would leave my face. Even late at night, freezing cold journeys traveling back in the dark would feel totally worth it, even if the shivering made braking more of an intention rather than a realistic option. There was an alarmingly regular occurrence of rear flats before a journey home, slipped chains under loads and the pooling of an unidentifiable black gunk on the kitchen floor, but these were put down to the aforementioned 'character' of a true road warrior's bike.

During an unloved period where she spent a year locked up a garage basement of a converted methodist church, I spotted a single speed conversion locked up round the back of the department. British racing green frame re spray with a brooks saddle and leather bar tape! Disassembly and a thorough de-grease was followed by stripping back the original eighties white paint with yellow and black embellishments, back to bare metal. Three layers of brooks pearl effect MG racing green from Halfords and an accusation of sniffing spray cans by housemates later, she was reborn.

It was after moving up to Durham where the relationship really started to fall apart. In addition to an aversion to the southbound bike racks and making an enemy with a stubborn scooter, she really didn't react well to the weather. With nasty hills and road surfaces at the best of times, she threw me off twice on a bad day, with the second ending up in an uncontrolled slide similar to falling head down an icy ski slope, belly down, arms out in front, spotting for a small child to arrest your momentum. In retrospect it was already over anyway. She had attracted the attention of a friend when, after leaving the bike lock at home, she had to be smuggled down through electrical, past the measurements lab, bungled into the lift, then along the 3rd floor corridor, through the double doors, then into the office. Propped up against the electrical breaker box, round the back of the doors to hide from the fire marshals, it was true love. Not the testing, trying and ultimately accommodating first love of mine. She was promised away from that moment onwards and finally given away this January.

In a final act of defiance, in the early hours of the morning of the day she was to be taken down the aisle with a shotgun in her back, i decided we should have one last ride to the station. As i swung my leg over for the final time, tiptoeing on the dark tarmac to maintain balance, i felt content that this truly special bike was going to a great owner. The cranks were reset, right foot high, left toes on the ground, we were ready for the off. Kick off, power down. And immediately. It felt. Very. Wrong. The rear derailleur exploded in a shower of jockey wheels, screws and cassette teeth. The chain had completely jumped off the front derailleur and was jammed between the inner chain ring and the frame. We came to a sharp and abrupt stop. It was definitively time. 

P.S. 

While writing this entry, it occurred to me that after rebuilding the bike, i forgot to reattach the Raleigh badge and that it must still be sitting in a crate in the garage. The minimalist decals or the laser etched insignia of the bikes currently sitting in the garage just don't have the same impact as that small but iconic metal badge. I must remember to give it to Seb.